


The Traveller

by charlolwut



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Fantasy, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Time Traveller!John, a bit of everything really, and a dog called Hamish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlolwut/pseuds/charlolwut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:<br/>Sherlock Holmes has never been the subject of bullies, and has a rather happy childhood. But he's also alone. And while he doesn't mind being alone, he would like a friend.</p>
<p>But one day a man literally pops into his garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119001119#t119001119 
> 
> Thought I ought to finally post this! It's been gathering dust bunnies for a while. 
> 
> I know there's probably plenty of other TTTW/SH crossovers, but it's such a magical idea and I wanted to experiment with it. Thank you to the lj anon who prompted this. :)
> 
> Enjoy, hopefully!

_2nd November 1983. (John is 39, Sherlock is 7 and ¾.)_

"Shit-"

The voice cuts off just as Sherlock looks up from his book. The book is interesting, but it probably won't be as interesting as the sudden pop and whatever, rather whoever, is swearing behind the bush. Sherlock knows it can't be Mycroft because he went out with his stupid friends an hour ago and he said he wouldn't be back until tea time, and Mummy is busy cooking with Nanny, and anyway neither Mycroft nor Mummy swear. So it's just Sherlock out in the meadow by the bridge - all by himself, might he add. It's his secret hideout. Secret. Meaning nobody else knows. And he didn't bring anyone with him (who would go with him?). So why is there a person shuffling behind the bush? 

"Hello? Is someone there?" says the bush. Sherlock suddenly feels shy and slightly frightened - only slightly. Nevertheless, he stands up and raises his big book to shoulder level. 

"If you're a monster," says Sherlock, feeling braver now he's on higher ground, "Then I'm warning you: I'm armed. And dangerous," he adds as a precaution. The monster might be stupid (everyone is compared to Sherlock). 

The bush laughs. Sherlock pouts; it wasn't supposed to laugh. But the laugh continues and only then does Sherlock realise that it isn't spiteful, that it actually sounds...nice. Like its laughing for him, not at him. 

"I'm not a monster, I can assure you of that," comes the reply. 

"Well, come out then so I can see you!"

The bush chuckles again and murmurs something below his breath, before speaking up again. "Um, I would, but I have no clothes on. So if you have a blanket or trousers or something, I would be very grateful if you could throw them over here for me to put on."

Sherlock considers. Then: "Why don't you have any clothes on?"

"I'll tell you once I'm decent, I promise."

Sherlock picks up the red blanket that he'd been sitting on and chucks it quickly at the bush. It doesn't quite make it - it inverts and starts to float backwards annoyingly - and so Sherlock takes a few steps closer to the bush and throws it again. A hand reaches out from the bush to grab at it and Sherlock steps backwards a couple of times again, clutching his book in his tiny hands. He fidgets for a moment and then looks back at the slightly yellowing patch of grass his blanket had previously been on and compares it to the green blades next to it, trying to figure out how long the dead grass had been dead for. 

Finally, after a minute of waiting, Sherlock calls out, "Are you okay?"

A muffled "I'm fine" comes from the bush, and after some rustling of leaves, a man steps out, crouching under the twigs that are brushing his head. The blue towel is wrapped around his lower body, but other than that, true to his word, he is totally naked. He's pale even in contrast to his dishwater blonde hair and his eyes are smudged with dark bags, but the smile he's wearing is comforting enough to Sherlock to let him know that this man isn't a monster. He lowers his book slightly, but still keeps it at the ready just in case because he hasn't forgotten Mummy's lessons on strangers. 

The man looks ill, so Sherlock enquires as to his health. "What's wrong with you? You're pale, but your face is paler than the rest of you, you have sleepy bags under your eyes and your left hand is shaking, all of which indicates sickness of some kind. Are you ill?"

Bush-man looks surprised and slightly proud for some reason. He brushed himself down and a scattering of leaves fall to the ground. He smiles, though Sherlock can see it’s a worn and tired one. "Well, I'm not usually in the best condition after I appear, but I'm fine now, don't worry."

Sherlock can feel himself getting excited. He allows his curious mouth to fire off questions. "Once you appear? What do you mean by that? Why do you get sick? Is it always the same kind of sick? Wait, no, do you always feel ill? Because the first time I went swimming in the lake I had a cold for the whole week when I got out, but then the next time I didn't."

"Woah, slow down!" chides the man, grinning. He holds up three fingers and counts them off as he answers Sherlock's questions. "Okay, one: I usually feel sick because what I do takes it's toll on my body. Two: yeah, it's usually dizziness, nausea and headaches. And three: I feel poorly most of the time, yeah."

"You missed on the most important question!" retorts Sherlock, although his eyes are shining with the glee of having new information. "What do you mean by once you appear? HOW did you appear? Also, how did you find my secret hideout?"

"Ah, well," says the man, still grinning, "Perhaps we should make introductions first, Sherlock, before I tell you my secret. My name is John." He bends down and offers a hand for the little boy to shake. 

Now Sherlock is really, really curious! 

"How do you know my name?" he blurts out, totally ignoring the offered hand.

John drops his hand in lieu for placing both of them of his knees as he bends down to Sherlock's height. His eyes are twinkling, like Sherlock's does when he's really looking forward to something. 

"Because I'm a Time Traveller, Sherlock."

"You're not a time traveller! Real time travellers have clothes. Usually really old ones like Victorian clothes or roman togas or something, because they actually time travel and get clothes from different eras and cultures. And they usually have assistants to help them explore and go on adventures," replies Sherlock, a bit disappointed. He would have loved to have met a real time traveller.

John sits on the grass carefully, arranging the towel so it still covers his modesty. "Yeah, like Doctor Who? Uh, yeah, sorry, I'm a bit of a rubbish Time Traveller compared to The Doctor."

"You're strange. I'm leaving," says Sherlock, scrutinising the man sat down in front of him. 

John blinks and looks a little disappointed. Then he waves his hand. "Okay, I'll catch you next time maybe." 

Sherlock doesn't move. Then with a big, melodramatic sigh, he plops down on the grass opposite John. "I would leave, but you're just too interestin- I, well, I still have questions to ask." 

John smiles. "Okay, shoot."

"Right, now really how do you know my name? Are you friends with Mycroft? You look too old to be. Scratch that. Are you friends with Daddy?" says Sherlock, his last question finishing on a high, hopeful note. 

"I'm...well, I've never met your dad and I wouldn't exactly say I'm friends with Mycroft. Acquaintances, I guess," replies John. "And I've told you, I'm a Time Traveller. I'm not lying to you, Sherlock. And I'm not that old, am I?" 

Sherlock smiles slightly. "Well, of course you're old." He watches as Johns face crumples into a comical frown. "Just to me of course, because I'm only seven and three-quarters. I'm sure to Mycroft you wouldn't be that old," he hurriedly adds, desperate to appear polite in front of this strange, wonderful man. 

"You're seven?" 

"And three-quarters," corrects Sherlock. "How can I believe you? You have no proof."

"Well then, let’s see. You've never met me before, but I've met you lots in the future, which is how I know that you're Sherlock Holmes, that you have a brother named Mycroft and, at this age, a fish called Hank. Your birthday is 6th January 1976. You live with your parents in Sway, Hampshire. Your favourite colour is blue and you want to be a pirate. Oh, and you're very, very smart. Top of your class," replied John.

Sherlock is more than a little dumbfounded. Then he shakes his head. "Mycroft could have told you that. Give me more proof!"

"Okay," says John, leaning in and surveying the young boy, "Does Mycroft know about the frogs you've been keeping under your bed? Or about your lovely friend Anna?"

Sherlock blushes furiously. "No, he doesn't. No one does. How did you..." he trails off.

John smiles, fondly remembering how he was told about Sherlock's primary school crush and temporary pets. He leans forward again though, determined to impress the little boy. "And if you want even more proof, stick around and I'll vanish in front of your eyes."

The boy's eyes sparkle and he fidgets excitedly. "Really?"

"Yep."

"Can you do it now?!"

"I'm afraid not," John replies, watching the boy's face drop, "I don't get to choose when I come and go. But I'll let you know when I'm feeling like I'm going to disappear, okay? It shouldn't be too long, I'm feeling a bit queasy again. Always a tell-tale sign."

Sherlock squishes his mouth to the side as he contemplates waiting for the man to magical vanish. He decides it would hurt to wait. It's only polite after all. "Oh, okay, yeah, sure."

John smiles at the little boy. "Right. Say, Sherlock, have you got any food with you? Only time travelling makes me a little hungry."

The bag next that lies next to them is upended as Sherlock searches for food. He comes up with a bag of raisins and some squashed mini ham sandwiches. "Will this be alright?"

"That's great, thanks," smiles John. The boy grins proudly back. "

"I've got some orange juice too if you'd like it!" says Sherlock giddily, watching John nod as he unwraps the sandwiches from the clingfilm and stuffs them into his mouth. Sherlock watches almost unnervingly, his eyes fixed on the man. "You eat like a dog."

John sputters slightly and finishes his mouthful. "I do not!"

"Yes you do," replies Sherlock, grinning. He plucks the orange juice from underneath the bag, where he chucked it after retrieving the food, and chucks it at John. "Do all time travellers eat like that? Is it because you still feel ill? Were you sick?"

"Ah, so you believe I'm a Time Traveller now then?" says John. He finished off the sandwiches and licks his fingers before opening the raisin packet. He offers one to the little boy, who declines with a shake of his head, finding it more fascinating watching the man eat.

"Well, of course I'm going to need more data to fully believe it," says Sherlock, eyes wide and curious, "but I'll humour you for the moment."

That deep chuckle reaches Sherlock's ears again, and he thinks for a second how good it feels to just sit here with somebody and chat. God knows Mycroft is too busy to nowadays. 

He doesn't realise he's said that out loud until he sees John frowning. John pops another raisin into his mouth and asks, "Where is your brother at the moment anyway?"

"With his school friends."

"Why aren't you with your friends?" John asks, although he's already knows what the answer will be.

Sherlock pouts. "I don't need friends. Everyone's boring and stupid at school." He crosses his arms. "I'm perfectly happy."

Just the answer John had been predicting. He tries to smile warmly and asks, "Could I be your friend?" 

Sherlock considers. Friends are boring, but having a time traveller as a friend would be pretty wicked. And although he won't admit it, being by himself does get a bit, well, lonely sometimes. Maybe a friend would be good.

"Yes," says Sherlock, delivering his words as if he were a king, "You can be my friend."

John lights up. It's the only way Sherlock can really explain it, it’s like the man was actually very happy at being Sherlock's friend. 

"Ah-" murmurs John. A shiver runs up his back as he stomach churns. "Time to get going."

"What? You're leaving?" 

John takes one look at the little boy’s familiar face and feels his heart break slightly. "It's okay, I'll be back." Suddenly, he remembers what he has to do. "Sherlock, have you got a notebook and a pen on you? I just need to write down some quick dates. It'll tell you when to expect me down here next. It'll also be good if you could bring some trousers and a shirt or something. Food and drink wouldn't go amiss either. Don't get me wrong, I like this blanket, but I like my creature comforts too."

While John was talking, Sherlock was rooting through his bag for a pen, having fished a small notebook out already. He finds a kind of blunt pencil, but John says it'll do, so Sherlock hands the pen and paper to the time traveller and sits on his hand, jiggling his knees up and down restlessly.

"Okay, so the next date you have to look out for is near Christmas. It's the 20th December at 4:00pm, okay?" says John as he hastily writes down the dates he's memorised from the very same notebook he has at home in his own time period. "Now I may appear older, or I may appear younger. I'm sorry I haven't had enough time to explain how time works. But I'm sure you can research about it, you're a clever lad! And if not, then I'll explain it to you next time, okay?" 

John can really feel himself going now. He holds out his hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stands up and edges forward, eyes shining. He takes John's hand and shakes it slowly, solemnly. John gives one last smile as his body starts to disappear from his toes and works its way upwards. It is a pleasure to see Sherlock absolutely floored in wonder, and it is the last thing John sees before he is taken from Sherlock's childhood.

*

_15th March 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)_  

The bed creaks and groans as John drops onto it. Rather, onto Sherlock's stomach. There is an 'OOMF!' from both men and John scrambles off Sherlock, who sits up ramrod straight and wide awake. He stares at John, who's on the floor now having underestimated the bed space for rolling over, and quirks his lips.

"What are you doing, John?" says Sherlock, amused. His voice hitches slightly as he tries to keep himself from wheezing from his traumatic wake up call.

John sits up, rubbing his head and looking sheepish. And naked. Sherlock whips the duvet off of himself and passes it to his friend. 

"You'll never guess where I've been, Sherlock," replies John, wrapping the duvet around himself and standing up. He holds up a hand at Sherlock, who is just about to interrupt. "Wait, no, you probably can."

"Judging by your ridiculous smile and the distinguishable grass patches on your knees, you have just visited me as a child, correct?"

John beams. "I have just visited you as a child for the first time. I think I astounded you."

Sherlock is quiet. Then: "You did more than that. You were my first proper friend." He chuckles slightly. "I used to think you were an alien."

"Ah, well. That's understandable, I guess," replies John, still smiling broadly. "Man appears naked from nowhere. Man disappears, leaving only the blanket. Makes sense to come to the conclusion that I'm an alien." He yawns. "I'd best be off to bed. I've got work in the morning."

"You hope," replies Sherlock. John shakes his head at him and walks out of the room, throwing the duvet towards his friend as he shuts the door. Sherlock listens to John climbing the stairs and collapsing into bed in the room above him. 

With a sigh, Sherlock collapses back down, his head resting against the lopsided pillow. He is wide awake. He should go finish his experiments, or look through the notes of their current case, or play the violin for a bit. He doesn't though. He lies there and thinks about his first encounter with his astonishing friend. 

*

_20th December 1983. (Sherlock is 7-nearly-8.)_  

Sherlock wakes up at 6am exactly and jumps out of bed, wincing as his cold feet land on the even colder floorboards. He bounds over to his desk and double-triple-quadruple checks his bag for the thirty seventh time that week. He is excited, even more excited than the time Mycroft promised to take him to the zoo so he could tell him about the different species in more context than the stupid books at school (he knows what a mammal is, no need to keep explaining it to him! What he doesn't know are the different genuses, kingdoms and domains of various species.) Mycroft never did take him of course, though he apologised profusely and explained that he was invited to go to some stupid academy thingy to look around and think about his future on the day they had planned to go, which is why Sherlock has stolen Mycroft's trousers for the man instead of Daddy's. Mycroft is so fat anyway that he doubted that the sizes would have varied much. 

So there's that so far. Sherlock glances up at the clock and scowls; it only took his 3 minutes to double-triple-quadruple check his bag for the man. He stands suddenly and clamours over to his desk, jumping up on the chair that's too big for him but he insisted he wanted anyway. He grabs a pencil from his pot and a sheet of paper and starts to write a list. The list goes like this:

_An Ordered List of Everything That Is Needed For John The Time Traveller's Vizit Visit.  
1) Fatty Mycroft's trousers.  
2) Fatty Mycroft's shoes.  
3) Hawaiien shirt from the dressing up box.  
4) Coffee cake that Mummy left out of her tea party with her frends friends.  
5) Fresh strawberries from the feeld field. I BEFORE E EXCEPT AFTER C!!!  
6) Ham sandwiches because John seemed to like them last time.   
7) Orange juice because John didn't try it last time and I need to know if he doesn't like it or if he just didn't have time.   
8) Coffee (which I'll get later so it won't be cold) because all adults like coffee for some reason. It's horrible. I'll never like it.  
9) My essay on time traveling. John can tell me which bits I got rite right and he can tell me more about it too, like he promised.  
10) The red blanket for us to sit on because the grass is cold.  
11) Finally a notebook and a PEN just in case he needs to give me any more data and because I don't want to trace over Johns dates again in the notebook just to make it neater, I can't be bothered. _ 

That's another 10 minutes gone. Sherlock looks at the digital clock. It blinks 6:13am at him. Sherlock kicks his feet against the back of the desk, which his toes only just reach, and stubs his big toe. It hurts. 

It's going to be a long day, he thinks to himself.

*

_20th December 1983. (John is 35, Sherlock is 7-nearly-8.)_  

One moment John is running barefoot on the hot tarmac, the policeman right behind him, and then the next moment he is thrown onto a rock like a rag doll, slicing his hands as he tries to protect his head. 

"Ouch! Shit."

Suddenly, he feels a presence behind him, like you do when you're hyper aware of everything around you and when you've just been chased by the local police for stealing clothes off of an elderly gentleman's washing line. He feels sick, so he doesn't want to turn around lest he pukes up over some poor bloke’s shoes. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose.

"Excuse me," says a high pitched voice. It is accompanied with some prodding. "Excuse me? Mr Time Traveller? John?"

John knows that voice. And as he opens his eyes, he realises that he recognises this place. He's only been here once before, years ago when he'd just recovered from Afghanistan, but he knows this place almost as well as he knows himself. He wouldn't not know it for the world. Which is why when he turns around to see a black-haired boy poking inquisitively at him, he gives a smile and his heart leaps. This is just what he needed after a shitty day: a nice chat with a younger version of his best friend. He's missed him.

"Hello, Sherlock," he says. He has no idea how many times the young boy has seen him, but it has to have been at least once. Sherlock described their first meeting to him once. This isn't how it went, him landing on a rock and being prodded at. 

Sherlock smiles tentatively. "I was just about to leave. You're late."

The sun is almost down in the sky, John notes. It must be at least 6pm. He doesn't know what time he was meant to arrive. He looks apologetically at Sherlock, who has crossed his arms and looking altogether too old for his age. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I must have told you before, but I have a really shi- bad memory. Maybe I wrote the times down wrong."

Sherlock looked peeved. "I hope not! I don't want to be waiting 2 hours every time you come to see me."

"I'm sorry. Don't worry, this is probably just a one off," replies John. He scratches his naked torso. Then remembers. "Ah, bollocks! I mean, balls. Um, Sherlock, you don't have any clothes with you...?"

Sherlock blinks. "You told me to bring you some. Of course I do." 

"Ah, right, okay, I'm glad I thought of that," says John, getting red in the face. He looks down and cringes, before cupping himself and shuffling backwards into a convenient bush. He feels like he's corrupting the poor child, even if Sherlock has probably seen him partially naked before. This is probably why he's so comfortable walking around in the nude at Baker Street, thinks John.

Sherlock looks quizzically at him, but turns around and rifles through the bag next to him anyway. He comes up with a ghastly Hawaiian shirt, a pair of beige trousers that look several sizes too big for John and a pair of posh leather shoes. Not the worst ensemble John's been in, but a pretty good candidate. 

"Thank you, these are great," says John as he reaches for the pile of clothes that Sherlock has just placed down in front of him, looking far too much like he's handing them to an animal and he's analysing what it'll do next. The little boys sharp eyes stay on him even as John moves to start working the slightly-too-small shirt over his head. John twirls a finger around and raises his eyebrows. Sherlock gets the message and turns around quickly, flushing with embarrassment at being caught out staring. With Sherlock turned around, John feels comfortable finishing tugging the shirt on and standing up to pull up the loose trousers. He grabs at the elastic around the top edge of them and pulls the loose fabric into his fist, so that the trousers are taut around his hips. They're exactly the right height, which makes John feel just that bit shorter, knowing that these are probably Mycroft's when he was a teenager and that the fact that John is as tall as a teenager makes him feel a bit inadequate. The shirt, however, is tight on him. He feels like deducing where it’s come from, possibly from Sherlock's dressing up box or from his father's wardrobe (he's leaning more towards the dressing up box as he is finding it hard to imagine any of the Holmes' wearing a Hawaiian shirt), but he's more looking forward to sitting down and chatting with Sherlock. 

John turns around and sits down in front of the shoes that have been placed on the grass. He lets go of the waistband of the trousers, now that they have no chance of falling down, and starts putting the shoes on. Sherlock turns around and sits opposite John, his eyes wide and inquisitive.

"I didn't think you were real," admits Sherlock quietly. "I thought you were imaginary. I told Mycroft about you and he said I'm a bit too old to have imaginary friends now."

John snorts and mutters about how he's looking forward to meeting Mycroft for the first time. He knows that in his present, Mycroft knows all about John's condition and doesn't seem that surprised. But the first time he realises his little brother wasn't lying about the time travelling man appearing in his secret hideout, it'll be good. John will make sure of it.

"I wouldn't worry about Mycroft. He wouldn't believe in anything even if it bit him on the arse. You're much more observant and clever, I think," says John.

Sherlock brightens. Then he says, rushing out his words as if he'd wanted to ask them for some time but didn't feel like it'd be suitable, "Areyouanalien?"

"Sorry?"

"Are you an alien?" repeats Sherlock, looking very awed and slightly scared.

John laughs. "No, sorry. I'm an ordinary, boring human."

"I don't think you're boring," says Sherlock earnestly, "I think you're the most interesting person I've ever met!"

"Thank you," replies John, smiling. He definitely doesn't hear that from Sherlock any more. It's nice to be complimented. And he knows how much that flattery meant; Sherlock, at any age, never gives compliments unless he really thinks people deserve them. 

"So if you're just human, why can you time travel?" asks Sherlock, curious. "Is it genetic? Do you have children? Do they have it? Did your parents?"

John's smile turns sad. "No, I don't have children and my parents didn't have it. It's not genetic." He pauses, not wanting to frighten Sherlock. He chooses his words carefully. "I was injured really badly, and when I woke up I could time travel. I can't choose when or where I go, it just happens. And I've never met anyone with the same ability."  
Sherlock looks fascinated. "How were you hurt? Can I time travel if I get hurt enough?"

"No!" says John, looking horrified. "No, I wouldn't even try that if I were you. There were plenty of other people with injuries similar to mine, and to my knowledge none of them can time travel."

"Oh," says Sherlock, and he is quiet for a moment. John looks unhappy now. He doesn't want his friend to be unhappy, so he changes the subject. "I bought food and drink if you want. I bought coffee. You like coffee, right?"

"I love coffee. Coffee would be great, thanks," smiles John. Sherlock grins back and passes the thermos flask. John unscrews the lid a takes a sip of the coffee. It is stone cold. 

"Do you have any other drinks?" asks John, looking at the little boys confused face. "This is lovely, but I'm not in a coffee mood right now."

Sherlock makes a face, adding that to his memory (John has coffee moods - must obtain more data as to when he likes coffee and when he doesn't), but passes the orange juice regardless. He's watches carefully.

The orange juice is nice and refreshing, if not a bit lukewarm. Still, it rejuvenates him. John grins and thanks Sherlock, a bit unnerved by the way the child is watching him. Did he do something with the orange juice the last time Sherlock met him?

"It's not what you did do with the orange juice, it's what you didn't," says Sherlock suddenly, reading John's face. "You didn't drink it last time. Do you like it?"

John is a bit stunned. He didn't realise Sherlock's deductive abilities started this early. His mind-reading abilities, so to say. "Yeah, I like orange juice."

"Good," says Sherlock. He pushes some coffee cake towards John. John smiles; Sherlock is seeing what time travellers like and dislikes. It's quite amusing actually.

For the next ten minutes, Sherlock watches gleefully as John devours the cake and the ham sandwiches, but leaves the strawberries and gestures to Sherlock to share them with him. Sherlock obliges.

"Do you need a plaster for your hands?" says Sherlock around a mouthful of strawberry. He wants to say 'sorry the rock hurt you', but it seems childish. 

"No, I should be fine," replies John. He will be, once he gets back to the flat in his time and cleans his wounds. He's looking forward to getting into his own bed. 

Sherlock nods. Then he cocks his head as someone shouts for him from the edge of the meadow. He crawls towards the bushes John had been leaning against earlier and peeks through. Withdrawing, he aims a small, apologetic smile at John, "Sorry, Mummy's calling me for tea. I told her I didn't want any earlier, but she mustn't have listened. I won't be a second, I'll just go tell her I don't want food." 

He starts crawling out through the bushes, totally ignoring the bridge to the left of him that angles around the thicket. He stops just as his legs disappear in the leaves, turn around and stick his head back through the bush. 

"Stay here!" he says urgently, and John nods at him. Sherlock hesitates, not wanting to leave his secret friend behind, but turns back around and crawls as fast as he can. John hears his little fleeting thumping distantly across the meadow. He leans back and breathes the fresh air into his lungs. 

When Sherlock gets back, all that's left of his friend is a pile of clothes on the patch of grass where he had sat. The cold coffee sits untouched and the strawberries half eaten. 

*

_6th April 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)_  

Some days are normal. Some days John sticks around for weeks, going on cases with Sherlock and berating him for not eating and staying up at all hours in the night. He chats with Mrs Hudson over crap telly and goes to the pub with Mike Stamford and Bill Murray and sometimes even Lestrade when he can get time off of his gruelling cases at the Yard. Work will be tiring, but Sarah will make it better, and on these weeks where he sticks around long enough, he and Sarah will go on dates. They both know that they can't have a serious relationship (Sarah doesn't seem to know about his condition, but she never questions his disappearances; he asked her about how she felt when he left suddenly and she replied that she assumes that he's on a case with Sherlock or visiting Harry. John hasn't had the heart or guts to tell her the truth.) 

Some days are like today, where he relaxes at home and reads the newspaper on his chair, listening to Sherlock's whirlwind of thoughts and rants. He updates his blog after finishing the paper (he still listens to his therapist, even if she has got most of it wrong) and enjoys catching up with people on there. Sherlock occasionally intrudes, bending over John's shoulder to question him on his rubbish blog titles. He never usually complains about the content though, apart from the bits where John is involved. Sherlock says that John always romanticises things from his point of view, but when John has to ask Sherlock about what happened during the moments where he wasn't there, Sherlock always gives it in such clinical detail that John feels he has to dumb it down enough so the rest of the world can understand his flatmate's amazing deductions.

"Tea?" asks John, getting up and stretching his arms over his head. Sherlock merely grunts in response, so John takes that as a yes and starts to head to the kitchen, when suddenly his vision blackens at the edges and he grasps at nothing, vaguely hearing Sherlock shout his name, and then just as suddenly he's on the freezing floor of his office at night, vomiting his guts up and shivering against the cold wall. And he hates himself for always going, always leaving his best friend.

Time is a cruel master.

*

_30th March 2011. John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)_  

Moriarty's snide voice echoes throughout the room, threatening and burning. It bounces off the walls and makes the water ripple angrily. 

John pounces. He grabs Moriarty around the neck, breathing heavily, weighed down by the Semtex attached to his body, and stares defiantly up around him, trying to track the sniper that has been aiming at the bomb on him. 

"Oh, gooooood!" purrs Moriarty, a manic smile on his face. He looks fearless, but not as fearless as John, who snarls in his ear. But the red dot moves to Sherlock's forehead and John lets go, horror on his face. The sniper light moves back to his chest.

Moriarty leaves with a parting goodbye, and Sherlock has barely ripped the bomb jacket off, barely comforted John enough to comfort himself, when the lights are on them again and Moriarty is back in the room, all of his thoughts blatantly intent on killing John, and the snipers shift to John's head, and Sherlock ignore the jeers from Moriarty and focuses on John, his John, John John John. He doesn't dare move, he can't, his heart has stopped, and he thinks desperately that if John had one time to control his condition, just one, then please god let this be it, let John go, vanish, just get away!

The snipers shoot. But the bullet whizzes into the wall.

John has already disappeared. 

Sherlock lets go of the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. But as he looks at Moriarty's shocked expression, his heart pounds desperately against his ribs. 

He knows. Moriarty knows now, and there can't be anything worse than that.

*

_1st April 2011. (Sherlock is 35)._  

The clock ticks mockingly from the mantelpiece. Sherlock has been waiting for two days. 

He tells himself not to worry, that John always has and always will vanish. That he will come back to Sherlock in a few days. 

Wait, Sherlock. Wait.

*

_5th April 2011. (Sherlock is 35.)_  

A few days turns into a week. Sherlock ticks the days off the calendar on his phone. The white light hurts his eyes from staying indoors.

*

_5th May 2011. (Sherlock is 35.)_  

A month passes.

Sherlock has to fight not to touch the pack of cigarettes in the skull.

*

_17th May 2011. (Sherlock is 35.)_

The Tilly Briggs pleasure ship cruise case is solved, a laptop melts and Sherlock steals a bus during a chase.

He wishes John had been there.

*

_30th May 2011. (John is 35, Sherlock is 35.)_

There is a crash and a clutter of cutlery in the kitchen. Moans echo throughout the flat. Sherlock leaps up off of John's chair and swivels around, attempting to pinpoint the source of the noise. He finds it.

"Oh, John," he whispers, walking quietly over to the prone body on the floor. John is shivering hard, his lips tinged blue, and blood oozes from the cuts on his hands and knees. 

"Sh-Sh-Sherlock," says John, his teeth chattering wildly. He chokes on a sob. "Sh-Sherlock!"

Sherlock unbuttons his coat (he hadn't bothered to take it off after he had got in) and wraps it around his friend. With a quick pat on John's head, Sherlock grabs the medical pack lying on the landing floor and rifles through it. He washes and bandages John's cuts carefully, lovingly. Then Sherlock sits on the floor next to John and lays his head on his lap. 

John closes his eyes. He is safe.

*

_2nd June 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)_  

Mrs Hudson greets him at the front door, beaming. "Sherlock, dear" she says, clasping her hands together, "You have a surprise waiting for you upstairs-"

Before she can say anymore, Sherlock pushes past and races up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He's already read it in her body language, seen it on her fingertips, smelt it from her dress. He's back. John's back! John, John, John, his footsteps seem to say, his lungs bellow out, and John's name is already at the tip of his tongue, swathed in love and hurt and anger.

The door swings open, and there's John, sitting in his chair and nursing a cup of tea. He looks perfect, he is perfect. His John is back, his John from his timeline, and it's not the past and future John's that count (although he loves him just as much), it's the present, the now, that one that escaped death and had worried Sherlock shitless, and oh,he just wants to punch that smile straight off of John's stupid face!

"Sherlock!" exclaims John, laughing as Sherlock grabs him and pulls him up off his chair, knocking the tea to the floor, and pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. 

"John."

"Sherlock, shh, it's okay. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry."

"John," murmurs Sherlock, ducking his head low into John's shoulder, his back bending. "John, John, John."

*

_5th October 1989. (John is 38, Sherlock is 13.)_  

"No-one believes me! But I know I'm right! His shoes are missing. Why would his shoes be missing? He obviously wears shoes since he has certain calluses on his feet from walking, and he's not a Neanderthal. Anyway, his mother said that he had been wearing shoes when she dropped him off at the swimming pool. Now his clothes were in his locker, which is understandable, but his shoes aren't. Where are they if they're not in his locker? Where?!" 

John idly picks at a blade of grass while listening to Sherlock rant angrily. He wants to suggest options, perhaps push his young friend into doing more convincing, polite speeches to get the police to listen, but he can't. A couple of months ago in his proper timeline, a thirty nine year old John appeared from the future and told him that, inevitably, he would have a conversation with Sherlock about Carl Powers, and that he shouldn't interrupt or help Sherlock with it, because the Carl Powers case would come back and it would be solved as part of a much bigger, much more dangerous crime. John, at any age, doesn't like giving information to his past self (he likes to think he has free will and that his life isn't set in stone) so this must be important, he figures. So with that thought in mind, he stays quiet.

"Why can't the police understand that? Are they that dim-witted?" snarls Sherlock, pacing back and forth on the grass like a caged lion. The novelty of his secret hideout wore out a long time ago, but John always appears here and doesn't think it wise to go explore yet. He knows the time and place he's meant to meet Mycroft and Mummy; he knows he shouldn't mess with the timeline. That doesn't mean Sherlock likes it however. He's always trying to convince John to go wandering. 'Look outside this bubble we've created! I don't want you to be secret anymore!' he always says, pouting in exactly the same way he did when he was little. John groans inwardly; if Sherlock is this moody as a pre-teen, imagine what he's like once he's stuck in the middle of puberty. John has met a fifteen year old Sherlock once. It wasn't pretty, needless to say (although it might have been John's accidental fault; apparently he hadn't visited for some years. That's why he's taking this scene so seriously - it might be the last time he gets to talk to Sherlock as a youngster, since he's already done the fifteen year old stage and he hasn't seen Sherlock younger than eighteen since).

Sherlock once mentioned this case in John's current timeline as the first case he ever got interested in. He didn't go into much detail about Carl Powers' mysterious death, but he did say that this was the moment he wanted to be a detective. More so, a Consulting Detective. Perhaps John will see this change today.

"You know, maybe I should become a detective," says Sherlock, frowning. "I'd be better than those buffoons. Maybe they could consult me instead! But I'd only take the interesting cases, no normal domestic murders."

John blinks. Well, that was strange. He shakes his head, wondering if this point in life is where Sherlock perfected his mind-reading skills or if it was just a very strange coincidence. He voted for the latter. 

"That's a good idea," replies John. He pauses, wondering if he should say it. Sherlock's never mentioned him doing this, but what the hell. It'll be amusing and something to tell him once John gets back to his own timeline. He hopes he doesn't start a world war or something from possibly changing the past. But as Sherlock says, he's an adrenaline junkie. So, whatever. He continues: "You'd kinda be like, I don't know...a Consulting Detective?"

Sherlock cocks his head. Then smiles. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Yeah, yeah I like that." He bares his teeth. "I'd be the only one on the world; I'd have invented the job! That'd show Mycroft."

John's going to meet Mycroft soon, according to his notebook sitting in his room. Soon, meaning during this time travel trip. He doesn't want to spoil it for Sherlock though. He didn't even want to spoil it for himself, but he reasons that his future self must be warning him for an encounter and a half. At least his future self did the decent thing and didn't tell him when he'd be meeting Mycroft. John could be here for minutes or months.

It's getting dark outside now. John can see the moon slowly creeping up and the sky darkening. It seems to be heading into a clear night though, so he has no problem with sleeping outside tonight, if he stays that long.

Sherlock looks at him and narrows his eyes. "You're considering the weather. Don't be dull, John. Just come inside! Nobody is going to know. Mummy's out and Mycroft's studying. I repeat, nobody is going to know." He huffs a laugh. "Don't be a chicken. It's not going to out you or anything. You'd be in a warm, comfortable bed, John. Think of that."

John does, letting his mind wander to pillows filled with goose feathers and a soft bed he could sink into. He hasn't had a good night’s sleep in days, his body has been hauling him from one traumatic date to another, and he's wondering if maybe this is how he meets Mycroft. 

"Okay," he hears himself saying. One night won't be too bad. He won't make this a permanent thing.

Sherlock grins boyishly. "Okay, good. Great!" he says excitedly, as he starts to collect his bag and the books on the ground. He reminds John of a hyperactive dog. John hopes he isn't going to have to sleep in Sherlock's room, he won't ever get to sleep if he does.

"Right, yes, okay," babbles Sherlock, his arms now overloaded and spilling books. "Well, come on then, John!"

John is instantly reminded of his Sherlock, who shouts that at him during chases. He smiles and stands up, his bones protesting vigorously. "Yep, coming."

*

The Holmes country house is just as impressive on the inside as it is on the outside. Gold tarnishes almost every handle and if you open one door, it's sure to lead to five more. 

John is lost almost as soon as he enters and steps onto the hand-woven, Indian rug. Sherlock runs ahead, and John feels like he's in Wonderland, chasing after the rabbit. He's never been here before and is afraid to touch almost everything. He hovers uncertainly on the doormat (if it can be called that). Thankfully, Sherlock doubles back, grasps John's wrist and drags him through the maze to Sherlock's room, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

They stop. Rather, Sherlock does and John bumps into him. Raising his finger to his lips, Sherlock motions to go quietly. John is uncertain, he was sure he heard a noise upstairs. Mycroft?

"Sherlock," says John, tugging his wrist slightly. "Sherlock, I thought you said he was studying and wouldn't bother us."

"You heard his fat ass too?" replies Sherlock nonchalantly. "And I said he was studying, I didn't say he would disturb us. He probably knew as soon as we walked up the drive. He's nosey like that."

John gapes. "Sherlock!"

"Sherlock."  
John jumps. Sherlock merely turns around, his eyes narrowed and fixed upwards. As John follows his gaze, the smooth, cultured voice drifts down again.

"Who is this gentleman?" says Mycroft as he lumbers down the stairs. John has to hold back a snicker; he'd been told about how large Mycroft was before his diet, but seeing him first hand really took the cake. Oh, he's going to love teasing him about this when he gets back to his timeline. No wonder Sherlock does it so often.

However, as much as his appearance had changed, there was no mistaking the great mind. John could see the cogs working in Mycroft's head, his clever eyes penetrating his little brother and the Time Traveller.

Sherlock lifts his chin. "This is my friend, John Watson."

"Sherlock, you are thirteen. A bit too old to bring back imaginary friends, I should think," replies Mycroft immediately. He looks to John. "May I get you a beverage whilst my brother and I have a little talk?"

Sherlock's hand tightens on John's wrist. He stares defiantly up at his brother. "I'm not going to let you get him a drink just to put a drug in there, Mycroft. I know how you work."

John feels distinctly ruffled at being protected by a teenage boy, but he lets it pass. He's rather glad Sherlock mentioned it. 

Mycroft sighs. Then he takes out something from his sleeve. "Ah, pity. I'll have to resort to uncouth measures."

Then, with stunning accuracy and speed, Mycroft steps forward and stabs a needle into John's arm. Ignoring his brother’s screeches of protest, he grabs Sherlock's wrist and yanks him away from John.

"We do not take strangers home, Sherlock," he says sternly, "Mummy won't be pleased."

John sways and stumbles backwards, his hands reaching out behind him as he leans against the wall. The world swims around him.

"What have you done, Mycroft?!" screeches Sherlock, kicking his brother in the shins, "He's going to vanish now and it's all your fault!"

John agrees. He can feel himself going. Stress obviously isn't cooperating with whatever drug Mycroft injected him with. 

"You bastard," says John, his cheek squashing against the wall as he tries to hold himself up, although it comes out more as "youublhastarddmmmf."

Mycroft looks at him strangely. His eyes widen, wonder splashing across his face.

Ah, John must be vanishing then. It's kind of funny, thinks John distantly, that's the exact expression Sherlock wore the first time he saw...

John's vision fades out to black.

*

_18th September 1979. (John is 8.)_  

Johns picks himself off the grass and prickly weeds. That didn't go at all as he planned. Frankly, it was bloody embarrassing. He hoped Mycroft would remember that as the day John Watson disappeared in front of his eyes, not the day he injected John Watson with propanol. The injection point hurts on his arm, but it’s easy enough to shake off, and not as irritating as the fact that even as a teenager boy, Mycroft seemed to have one up on him.

He rubs at his mouth and shakes his legs to get rid of the pins and needles. He must have been here for some time to have had numb legs. Fortunately, he seems to be hidden in another convenient bush. He will never stop loving nature for its abilities to hide his nudity.

"John!" cries a loud, high pitched voice. John recognises that voice, his mind playing pictures of his childhood. He turns his head toward the sound and sure enough he is greeted with a young Harry Watson standing with her tiny hands on her hips just a few feet away from him, her chin jutting out and her lips in a pout. She's looking up, not even acknowledging John's presence. 

"John!" she shouts again, "John, get down from there! Mum's gonna be so angry at you."

John follows his little sister’s look and sees an 8 year old version of himself hanging from the apple tree. He glances around quickly and grins; it is just how he remembered it, his old house. The long stretch of garden with the tree splat bang in the middle, his mums flower beds lining against the wooden fence that was the perimeter of the garden. His old childhood house, tiny but homey, with vines creeping up the brick walls. He turns back to young Harry and John's encounter and watches, fascinated. He can't remember this at all, so he figures he must have to stay quiet to not be noticed. 

"Get down from there, you idiot, before you break a leg!" 

His younger self grins at his sister. His face is growing red from hanging upside down from the tallest branch for so long. "I'm fine, Harriet. I'm having an adventure. Do you want to join in? I'm in the jungle right now, hiding from the tigers."

Harry twists her mouth sideways, forming a petulant expression. Her eyes are shining though.

"You're an idiot," she says, before clamouring up the tree to join her brother.

Thirty nine year old John smiles at the scene, feeling a slight stab of guilt because he knows what is going to happen to that carefree, little boy, how much his life will change. A moment passes before he feels the familiar twist and pulls of his stomach, and he shuffles so he can time travel sort of nicely (well, more comfortably than he would have done if he'd have stayed in the same place). 

John doesn't remember it (of course he doesn't; he was only eight and it was a minor, if not interesting, event), but as he transports to a different time, the children hear the pop and spot the vague figure turn and vanish in the bush.

"Look, Harry, it's a tiger!" shouts little John, pointing at the bush, his eyes as wide as saucers.

*

_15th March 2012. (John is 40 and 40, Sherlock is 36.)_  

"A supernatural being after a supernatural dog. How fitting," says Sherlock as they pace through the street market. They are heading to the moors.

"Shut up, Sherlock," replies John agitatedly. Poor Henry looks terrified enough with the prospect of going down to the hollow where his father died to process any more information and start suspecting Sherlock of madness. Because, really, who would believe Time Travellers existed?

Henry gives the two of them a confused look and clears his throat, feeling downtrodden at the thought of Sherlock also thinking he's just imagining the hound from hell, the supernatural dog. John gives Henry a quick smile and hurries after Sherlock, who has started walking faster suddenly. 

Later, John vanishes in the middle of the search. He sees Morse code dotted in the sky, translates it as UMQRA and jots it down on his phone; he hears Henry's frightened cry and Sherlock's shout of shock, and he starts to run down towards them, tripping over a root and disappearing in the dark. Sherlock only finds his friend's abandoned clothes after stepping on them on his way out of the forest. 

Later again, a future John appears just in time to shoot the red-eyed, snarling hound before it mauls Lestrade or Henry. He has gotten to know Lestrade rather well (the DI even knows about John's condition), and it is Henry - poor, petrified Henry - that they're doing this case for, he knows, so he fires the pistol lying on the ground where Sherlock dropped it almost automatically at the slobbering beast. Later, he wishes that he had the sense to wound Frankland, so that he didn't run away and blow himself up, so that Henry could have gotten justice for his pains. But it wasn't what had happened anyway, and John hated changing the past, so maybe it was all for the best. Fate, perhaps, and all that malarkey...

He disappears just as quickly, and the present John, the one in the correct timeline, appears in his and Sherlock's shared room in the pub the next morning. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry I couldn't protect you and Henry and Lestrade," says John quietly, once he has heard the conclusion of The Hound of The Baskervilles case from Sherlock. He sits on the end of his bed in his red boxers and a faded white shirt, his eyes downcast.

Sherlock places a hand on his friend's shoulder. He smiles crookedly. "You were there, you did protect us, idiot."

*

_19th July 1997. (John is 40, Sherlock is 21.)_  

Once he's dressed himself from the basket of dusty clothes they keep in the airing cupboard in the entrance hall, John makes his way to the living room. The calendar on the opposite wall says it's the nineteenth of July.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock," says John softly, smiling from the doorway.

Sherlock looks up drearily at the sound of his voice and does a drugged double-take. His mouth is open, and he doesn't make a sound at first, but then:

"John," he croaks. He swallows a sob and tries to smile. "John, oh, finally, John..."

John walks over and gathers the broken man in his arms. 

"Sh," he soothes, rocking Sherlock, "I'm here now."

"I thought you weren't ever coming back," murmurs Sherlock against John's neck. 

John winces. "How long was I gone for?"

Sherlock is silent. Then: "Three years." 

"Years?" exclaims John. He is baffled. He's sure he remembered being with Sherlock in his early twenties before. Or maybe his late teens. Or perhaps even as he just reached adulthood...oh. God, it really has been three years then.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he says, resting his chin onto his friend's head, dark curls of hair tickling his five o'clock shadow. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise."

Sherlock says nothing in reply. Then, and only just then, John thinks to pull away and hold Sherlock at arm’s length to judge the damage done. From first glance he knew that his friend had been doing drugs (he'd been told by Lestrade that Sherlock had done drugs in the past, and he knew his Sherlock was still trying to wean off of the nicotine), but he hadn't really thought to check him over; he was too preoccupied with comforting him. The result of his thorough check-over is a bad one: there are dark circles under Sherlock's eyes, his skin is as pale as paper, his pupils dilated to reach almost the edge of his universe coloured  irises. John takes Sherlock's hands in his and feels a slight shaking in them, reminiscent of his own past psychological tremor in his left hand. 

Sherlock pulls away suddenly, viciously. He bends double in his chair and put his head in his hands. "John, oh, John, please..."

John bends down and puts his hand tentatively on his friend's shoulder. It is shrugged off. "Sherlock?"

"Stop it, stop it, stopit, stopit stopit stopit!" 

"Sherlock?" 

Sherlock tosses his head up, his eyes fierce. "STOP IT." 

Then he quietens and begins to mutter, some of his words incomprehensible. John leans in closer to listen.

"It's not meant to do this, it's never done this before, and I don't want it, I don't - don't want it, stop it, please, please!"

John is starting to understand; Sherlock thinks he is a hallucination. He crouches down in front of Sherlock and lifts his head, John's hands on his cheeks. "Sherlock, Sherlock, I'm not your imagination, I'm here. I'm really here, I swear."

Sherlock looks at him suspiciously. In his drug-addled mind, he slowly starts to piece things together. "John?"

"Yes," replies John, nodding. "Yes, it's me, I'm here."

"Jesus," says a voice from the doorway. John jumps; he hadn't even heard anything. He looks around and sees a younger, raven-haired Lestrade hovering in the doorway. He is wearing a detective sergeant's uniform, reminding John of Sally Donovan suddenly. What she would say if she was here...then again, she probably isn't even employed by Scotland Yard in this year. 

"Jesus," repeats Lestrade, striding forward with a determined look. He glances at John and raises an eyebrow. "Haven't I seen you before with Sherlock?" 

John shrugs. "Um, probably."

"Hm." Lestrade crosses the room towards Sherlock and puts his hands on his hips in a strangely masculine manner. He looks like a strict father. It suddenly strikes John that perhaps he is, only just. Perhaps Greg has just had his first child. John recalls him mentioning his eldest daughter's age. It corresponds with this year almost perfectly. So, he's almost a father then, thinks John, a little proud of his deductive skills. Sherlock is rubbing off on him. 

Lestrade looks down at the pair. Then he says with a grim determination: "Sherlock, I'm not going to let you in on cases with me if you're going to be like this. The detective inspector is okay with you helping occasionally, even grateful for it, but neither of us can allow it if you're destroying yourself whilst doing so. I hate to say it, but I'm banishing you from cases unless you get clean."

Sherlock makes an indignant sound and makes to get up angrily, but stumbles over John and wobbles. He rights himself and stands on the spot a little lopsidedly, as if the room is slanted. Which, to him, it probably is. 

"I'll do what I damn well please, Lestrade!" he says angrily, "Mycroft put you up to this, didn't he? That utter moron. And you!" He spins around to face John again, jabbing a finger to his chest. "You did too! That's why you only appeared just now. You're in on it too!"

John tries to interrupt the one deduction that Sherlock has ever been Really wrong about, but Lestrade cuts in.

"Appeared? You mean visited," says Lestrade. 

Sherlock scowls at him. "No, I meant appeared. I meant - I meant, he's a...he time travels. He appeared, you dolt!" 

Lestrade shakes his head. "God, you really went off on one this time, didn't you..."

Sherlock strides forwards and stops right in front of Lestrade, so that they're practically nose to nose. "Don't you dare...don't you even..."

"Anyway," cuts in Lestrade again, "Get off the crack, get clean and work with us, Sherlock. I'll give you as many interesting cases as I can, but please, Sherlock, please just quit...this. You could be so much more than you are now. You're a great man, Sherlock Holmes. Act like it."

And with that, Lestrade walks out of the room, shutting the door. They hear his footsteps as he stomps down the stairs and smell the cigarette smoke travelling upwards through the window. He's stressed, that much is obvious. 

John looks at Sherlock cautiously. "Did you hear that, Sherlock?" 

He really cares about you, Sherlock. We all do. The words go unspoken, but Sherlock, being Sherlock, hears them anyway. He hears them through his deduction, his skills. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He exhales. "Yes. I did."

*

_31st January 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)_

“Who is this?” asks Lestrade sternly.

Sherlock brushes past both the D.I and John, who is still dressing himself in the customary blue, plastic suit. Sherlock waves a hand. “He’s with me.”

“But-“

“I said he’s with me.”

Lestrade looks carefully at John. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?

“Probably,” Sherlock replies, cutting John out. “He’s an old friend of mine.”

John holds out his hand and smiles. “Glad you remembered. Sorry I never introduced myself, Detective Inspector. John Watson.”

The offered hand holds steady, but it isn’t taken. Lestrade’s face clears. “You were the bloke with Sherlock when I had to give him a kick up the backside, right? In 1997.”

At Sherlock’s slow nod, Lestrade leans forward and peers at John’s face. “Wow, you haven’t aged a bit. In fact, I’d say you look younger now than you did then.”

“Thank you,” replies John uncertainly. His fingers fiddle with the cuff of the blue jumpsuit. Lestrade knows body language, he’s been trained on it, so he’s certain that this bloke hasn’t a clue what he and Sherlock are on about. But there’s no doubt about it, this is the man from all those years ago. Unless Sherlock had managed to make a robotic friend, which Lestrade wouldn’t really put past him.

Lestrade tries to shrug it off and opens the door into the crime scene. His job comes before curiosity. But he will definitely have to enquire about Sherlock’s…friend later.

*

John seems to totally vanish after the murderer is shot, which puzzles Lestrade to no end, because the laptop he carried and the clothes he wore were left on the sidewalk outside of the college in a line, as if he’s been running and they’d just dropped off of him one by one. It would have been suspicious had the murderer not been apprehended and shot, not to mention that he had admitted to murder right in front of Sherlock. And the self-proclaimed genius’ deductions only mentioned one culprit. The evidence seemed to add up. But then what had happened to John Watson?  
Later, when the emergency services and the press arrive at the scene, Sherlock inquires as to who shot the cabby for him. 

“We have no idea,” replies Lestrade. The shooter was a Good Samaritan for sure though, knowing to wait until he knew that Sherlock was really in danger to shoot the cabby. But his team still don’t have any clues. “We have nothing to go on.”

Sherlock smiles smugly and eyes the pile of clothes still sitting on the pavement. Lestrade had seen him pickpocket something out of the jeans and place it in his coat. It had looked distinctly gun-like. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock says, standing up. “Not at all.”

*

_3rd February 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)_

The obvious thing to do when you have an illness is monitor your condition and keep yourself treated. So that’s what John does. For a while now, he’s been medicating himself with drugs, sometimes calming and sometimes even epileptic ones. He’s figured that his time travelling episodes are akin to epileptic fits, mostly photosensitive; he can’t seem to watch a TV for longer than five minutes without feeling queasy and likely to jump in time. Flashing lights seem to set him off too. That’s why after his accident, he opted for a simple family doctor job instead of a surgeon. All of those flashing monitors, not to mention the stress and exhaustion that comes with the job from life-saving operations and late nights. God knows he couldn’t have gone back on the field anyway, what with the psychosomatic limp, the hand tremors and the deep fear coiled in the pit of his stomach, but it was nice to think that he had a choice. 

He does his self-medicating with care though. It must have been fate to have been an army doctor and gone through medical school. He knows what dosages to take, the amount he has to measure, the length of time they have to be taken for and at what time they should be taken at. He also knows how to wean himself off of the drugs and start taking others as he deem fit in a healthy manner. Sherlock was very vocal about safely giving his body less amounts, which doesn’t really surprise John since Sherlock was almost an expert in that field, having had to go through drug abuse rehabilitation more than once. Sherlock was also very insistent that John use him (and when he says that, he means use Molly Hooper) in order to get to the equipment at St Barlothomew’s hospital. Molly doesn’t seem to mind though; in fact, she positively beams and blushes when Sherlock enters the room. Sherlock talks and accepts her flirts begrudgingly whilst John fiddles around with charts, researches modern medicine and even occasionally manages to acquire Molly’s pass to the hospital and get a head scan done upstairs in one of the quiet rooms. Sherlock accompanies him on these trips and helps him set things up, if only because he is curious and very as to John’s condition. This is the seemingly one time that Sherlock does him any favours. John has only thanked him once though, because Sherlock shrugged him off and continued being just as nosey as he was, and this is kind of repayment to Sherlock messing up the flat, intruding into everyone’s lives, acting bloody rude and just generally being a pompous git.

Although saying that, as a child, Sherlock used to declare that when he grew up and got a bit cleverer that he would cure John.

“I like it, but I know you don’t like time travelling because it hurts you. So I’ve decided that I’ll stop you time travelling, only you have to stay with me. It’s pointless curing you if you’re just going to stay away forever instead of a few weeks.”

John had laughed, but a bubble of hope had risen up. He knew that Sherlock was a genius in the future, not only in his job but also in chemistry, biology, physiology, psychology and numerous other ologys. If anyone could find a cure, it was Sherlock.

Only as time went on and no cure was forthcoming, he had begun to miserably doubt the little boy’s original promise. Sherlock has taken blood from John and studied his medical records in his early thirties, but even since then there hadn’t been a sound from Sherlock about it.

Perhaps he couldn’t do it and was just too proud to admit it, thinks John.

Perhaps he just didn’t want to make a mistake and cause a dire consequence, knows Sherlock.

*

_10th August 2058. (John is 40, Sherlock is 82.)_

John stumbles over a plant pot as he is deposited roughly on the pavement. He tried to reach for it, but he fumbles and it breaks anyway, scattering beige pieces everywhere. The corner of his mouth lifts and he sucks a breath through his teeth, displeased. It was getting dark, but if anyone were to find him now…

That’s when he notices the clothes folded neatly on the back door step, as if waiting for him. He looks around: there is nobody in sight. He creeps forward on practised, silent feet and inspects the clothes. He does a double take. Yes, that’s definitely his jumper. The beige, cable knit one. John eyes it carefully; if his clothes are here, then maybe another John is too. Or perhaps someone is waiting for him. But the only person who has his time travel dates is…

John dresses quickly and runs around the corner of the house, one of his arms still stuck in his jumper. He swats a stray bee away and smiles, because this is what Sherlock has always wanted: to retire at a golden age and move to the countryside with John to raise bees. It seems an age that he runs; up the wooden steps past the pond and rockery, to slide his hand against the smooth bricks and vines that makes up the cottage.

“Sherlock!” he calls, panting slightly as he walks around to the front garden. He smiles broadly and looks around, noting with fascination the futuristic cars. He must be a lot further in the future. Possibly the furthest he’s ever travelled. 

“John.”

John swivels around and falters. Standing before him, holding a dog by its collar, is Sherlock Holmes. His hair is grey, his face wrinkled and his gait unsteady. He is still the wisest and best man that John has ever known. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” says John, smiling. He looks around for himself, a future John, but there is no one else to be found. His heart sinks like a stone. He looks at his best friend, standing on frail legs, looking lost and forgotten. John never thought he would have used those adjectives on that man. If only John had the same deduction powers, if only he could figure what went wrong, why Sherlock is standing here today without his John, without his confidence and power. 

“What happened?” says John. He is suddenly frightened. He strengthens his voice though. “What…happens?”

Sherlock edges closer, his bright eyes fixed hungrily on John. He lets go of the dog’s collar and pitches forward, straight into John’s waiting arms.  
“You took your time, John Watson, that’s what happened. I’ve been waiting decades for you.”

*

Later, John silently takes a pencil in his shaking hands and adds the date of his visit to the second last page in the notebook. Sherlock never even looks at this anymore – they’re both memorised the written dates and he’s not one for sentimental value – so it would be unlikely that he would look at this again anytime soon. Until something bad happens to John.

John pauses and then writes something new.

_10th August 2058.  
Wait for me, Sherlock. _

*

_17th April 2012. (John is 40 and 40, Sherlock is 36.)_

The day had been noticeably quiet. John had vanished in the middle of making breakfast for himself at 9am. They were both supposed to have been busy today – Sherlock at Barts to inspect the victim’s DNA in their latest case since the Scotland Yard forensics team had seemed to be more idiotic than usual lately, and John to work. Sherlock had had to phone in sick for him again. He hadn’t wanted to, but Mrs Hudson had berated him about not looking out for his friend when he needed him the most. He’d mostly done it to get her off of his back.

He shouldn’t really be surprised, John had been there for just over a month now, thinks Sherlock as he lounged on his chair, plucking at his violin. He’d finished the analysis of the blood and solved the case (it was a boring, simple domestic murder, as they usually are at this time of the year. No good murderers seem to want to go out in the rainy season, heaven forbid). Lestrade had been rather pleased and even offered to go to Sherlock to question him about the case and get his statement rather than the other way around. So here it is that Sherlock is waiting for the   
Detective Inspector to come around so he can give the necessary details and then shove him unceremoniously out of the door and wait until John gets back.

It all comes back to him time traveling blogger in the end. 

At the sound of a car stopping outside on the street, Sherlock sighs and plucks the resin from the table. By the time Lestrade has jogged up the stairs, Sherlock has started polishing his bow, looking bored and presumptuous. 

“I’ll make this quick then, shall I?” asks Lestrade wryly. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, a cutting remark on the tip of his tongue, when a tremendous crash echoes on the landing. Sherlock leaps up out of his chair and out of the flat door, Lestrade at his heels. He stops so suddenly that the DI runs into him, making them both stumble.

It’s John. His right forearm is stained red, possibly a venous cut judging by the quantity and colour. Behind the blood, Sherlock can see the slight rip in the skin, but it’s straight and clean cut, so not a knife, a bullet perhaps. Something with enough force to get the job done neatly and quickly. The way John’s leg shakes and can’t seem to hold his weight reinforces the idea of a bullet, the sense of an army flashback. Not a rubber bullet though, those are hard to draw blood with, they’re designed to stun or badly bruise, so proper metal bullets. So it’s someone who has access to lethal bullets, to a gun; someone with a steady hand but purposefully missed; someone who aimed from behind, so they have no sense of morality, only the thought of work. Already, Sherlock has an idea of what might’ve happened to John, but he grasps John’s shoulders and double checks, because you can’t draw a conclusion without sufficient facts, and the injuries are just clues, they don’t tell the story properly.

“John?” says Sherlock, dropping to the tips of his feet. “John, what happened?”

As though waking from a nightmare, John looks up with wild eyes. He hauls in a gasp of breath and the words come tumbling out.

“Moriarty. Moriarty has me, well, he has John. Your John, present John. I appeared in front of him and he shot at me and I was in a chair and,” John sucks in another breath, only this time it comes out as a horrified sob. “Oh god, Sherlock, help me, please, he’s electrocuting me, fucking help!”

Sherlock’s heart is pounding frantically against his ribs. For the first time ever, he’s unsure of what to do. He doesn’t know whether to stay and look after this John, who barely looks a day older than his present John, or whether to start searching for the one in serious trouble – his John. 

“He’s ruined the timeline,” John says suddenly, “this never happened to me, I’m from next month, but I was never tortured by Moriarty, I swear it.”

John suddenly reaches up, grasps Sherlock by the front of his coat and pulls him with surprising strength. 

“Do you realise what this means?” says John, looking wild once more. “He’s ruined the timeline. He’s done something that was never meant to happen, Sherlock! He could be wrecking havoc on the world as we speak. Time isn’t supposed to work like that; you can’t change what’s already happened, Sherlock. Jesus Christ, stop looking so vacant, the world could be fucking ending right now, and I-“

John cuts off suddenly and collapses, boneless in Sherlock’s arms.

“Sorry,” says Lestrade, as he works off his own coat and starts to wrap it around John. “He was getting hysterical.”

“So you knock him out?!” growls Sherlock. He bats Lestrade’s hands away and starts to work the buttons on the coat himself.

Lestrade looks uncomfortable. He looks down and starts to pull his shirt off. “He was going into shock. I didn’t want him to suffer any more.”

With that, he tears his shirt into strips with difficulty and hands them to Sherlock, who gets the message and starts forming a makeshift bandage around the cut on John’s forearm.

“Call 999,” mutters Sherlock. He doesn’t really like sending John to the hospital, because he could vanish and not only would it mess up his vitals and medication, but it could send him into fame and cause uproar over the disappearing man. But with Sherlock’s mind made up about going to rescue John and the only other person in the flat being elderly Mrs Hudson, he knows that a wound like this could go from bad to worse without proper medical assistance. 

Lestrade dials the numbers on his phone, asks for an ambulance and explains the emergency and address. After the call, he shakes it at Sherlock. “Don’t think for one second that you’re going without me, Holmes.”

“And get your least annoying officers,” adds Sherlock as an afterthought, blatantly ignoring the DI.

Lestrade splutters. “Sherlock, you realise I can’t get the force on this with me. This isn’t my division. This isn’t homicide. But even if it were, they won’t go on a case unless there’s circumstantial proof a person is missing.”

“Well, report John missing then.”

“Missing persons have to be missing for at least 12 hours.”

Sherlock sighs and grinds his teeth. “Lie to them. Tell them he’s been missing for 14 hours. Mrs Hudson will report him.”

“I can’t lie to them! They’d need proof!” replies Lestrade, aghast. “Any anyway, they’d be too busy searching this flat for clues than searching London for Moriarty’s base.”

“Well tell them the truth and hurry up! We don’t have time to lose, Detective Inspector!” shouts Sherlock angrily. 

Lestrade rubs the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, Scotland Yard would report me to the asylum if I said that John was a time traveller and he travelled back to us to say that his past self was being tortured.”

“For god’s sake. Whether we have the force behind us or not, John needs our help now. If you’re too worried about appearances, then I would prefer not to have your help. I can solve this on my own,” snaps Sherlock. He props John up against the wall and calls for Mrs Hudson, before stomping down the stairs. 

Lestrade sways uneasily on his feet, before making a decision and leaving John on the floor. He passes Mrs Hudson on the stairs, and gestures upwards.

“He’s up there. An ambulance is coming soon, but keep pressure on the wound, okay? Say he was mugged.”

Then he runs past her and out of the door to find and follow Sherlock.

*

_17th April 2012. (John is 40 and 40, Sherlock is 36.)_

“How do you do it, pet? How do you DO IT?”

“I’ve told you, I don’t know.”

“Is that so?”

“If you press that button again, then you’ll never know. I’ll vanish.”

“Let’s see what happens. I’ve always liked to live life on the edge.”

John screams. Electricity runs through him and licks burns onto his skin. But he doesn’t vanish.

“See, pet? You need to trust ol’ Jim. You won’t vanish. You won’t…time travel.” Moriarty creeps closer. “Oh, how I’d love to cut you open and prod around in there, search for that gene that makes you different. Special, even. But I won’t. I’m very merciful. As you’ve seen! I could’ve got Seb up there to shoot the other you straight in the head, BANG! But no, I was kind. I let him go. I made him go. You won’t have help come to you, not even Sherlock Holmes, until you tell me HOW YOU DO IT!”

The button is pushed and John screams hoarsely. He can feel himself going, just a little more torture to endure. Oh god, he hates himself. The one time he wants to vanish and he can’t!  
The agony stops. His fingers tingle and turn solid again. John moans in anguish.

“I’m tired of this charade now; I have things to do, people to see. I’ll leave you here and see if anyone finds you in time. Or if you can put that admirable talent to use,” Moriarty says, a petulant look on his face. He grins when he sees John’s expression. “OH, surprised that I’m leaving? Well, I’m not leaving for long you know. Sherlock Holmes isn’t the only one holding my interest now. You’re not just a pawn anymore, Johnny boy. We have our own little game now. And you can’t escape it, that I do swear.”

Moriarty grabs John’s hair and pulls. He snarls in his ear. 

“Know this, wherever you are, wherever you hide, I will find you. There is not a crevice in this world where I haven’t eyes. I will find you and I will extract the information I want. Mark my words.”   
He brightens again. “Ciao!”

With one last manic grin, Moriarty takes John’s head and slams it into the concrete wall. John slumps immediately. 

When Sherlock and Lestrade storm the empty building not ten minutes later, John is still unconscious and Moriarty long gone.

*

_18th April 2012. (John is 40, Sherlock is 36.)_

Later, in the private room Mycroft snagged them at the hospital, Sherlock awkwardly twines his fingers around John’s and holds his hand fast.

“What do you remember, John?”

“Nothing.”

*

_29th April 2012. (John is 40, Sherlock is 36.)_

It is a damp day. Rain trickles down the window, the air is muggy and John’s bed is still damp from nightmare sweat. 

Sherlock hasn’t told him what happened on that night. He knows that John will figure it out eventually. Say, in a month, when he will travel back in time and actually witnesses it. He also knows that John was right to panic that night; time shouldn’t be altered. It has a fixed path and no matter how much people tell themselves about free will, destiny and fate, the conclusion is that it is none of those. Destiny and fate may have a hand perhaps, and free will does exist, but time is a tape recorder – a steady line of events. Perhaps people can tamper with it, but that’d cause untold damage. That’s why John’s condition is so dangerous. It’s as if he’s rewinding the tape, but sometimes he rewinds too far and it’s back in the fuzzy static, where he has no idea what’s happening or what to do about it, because he certainly can’t go forward intentionally. So he doesn’t know what to do and he doesn’t want to do anything unless it’d ruin timelined events, but then perhaps he was meant to do those things, that he can’t help but do those things, because his timeline is written in that way. So John is rather a big elastic ball of time, pinging back and forth all the time.

Time.

Sherlock doesn’t bother with the logistics of time. You could go on forever making sense of it. And while Sherlock Holmes is a very curious man, he’s more for clues and conclusions.   
This is how he observes that his friend has woken from a nightmare. It is two in the morning and as John trudges down the stairs sleepily, Sherlock can see the damp patches on his back and the nape of his neck, dotting his forehead and dragging his mouth down. 

“Tea?” asks Sherlock. John jumps as if he hadn’t even recognised Sherlock’s presence. It’s a common occurrence these days. For although John may not remember the event, his body does and it does not respond well now to sudden actions. 

“That would be lovely, thanks,” replies John. He slumps down into his chair and closes his eyes, looking as if he would be perfectly happy to sit there forever. 

Sherlock stands up from his desk and goes to make tea for them both. It’s a courtesy he only extends to John, and perhaps sometimes Mrs Hudson when she’s feeling particularly down. He’s not as good at making tea as John is, although he should be seeing as Sherlock’s the scientific man, but John has had years of experience and he is a proper, quintessential English gentleman. He has   
a certain knack for it. 

“I had another nightmare,” says John. 

As if Sherlock didn’t already know. He hums anyway. 

“I died,” says John. 

Sherlock goes stiff. Getting shot in Afghanistan and Sherlock himself dying are common nightmares of John’s, but he’s never heard of this one before.

“Sherlock,” starts John. He breaks off, but seems to gather himself together and tries again. “Sherlock, have you ever seen me older than I am now?”

Sherlock is silent. Then:

“I have never seen you past forty, John. “

“Ah,” says John. “Ah, okay.”

The kettle screeches.

*

_10th June 2012. (Sherlock is 36.)_

Time got there before I did.

Pity. 

M

 

UrbanLegendsOnline.com » Government and Military, UrbanLegendsOnline » The Vanishing Soldier  
The Vanishing Soldier  
February 18th, 2010 | 6 Comments

I shall make this brief, since I don’t wish to blabber on about what I do not understand. This story is perhaps the most perplexing event that has ever happened to me. It’s typical that it had been during my time of what I thought was a stabilising point in my career. 

During the Afghanistan campaign I was with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in her Majesty’s Royal Army Medical Corps. It was a blazing hot day. Our medical team was moving from one camp to the next with the infantry. All of a sudden, shots went over our heads and everybody dropped to the ground. We started on our jobs like clockwork and it wasn’t long until the enemy had been taken down. Parts of the infantry moved ahead to scout, but most members of our team and the rest of the soldiers stayed put. Suddenly, a piercing scream in the silence echoed across the sand dunes. We were cautious, for it was where the enemy gunfire had initially come from. But nonetheless, a few of us went to investigate. We caught sight of an Afghani standing shell-shocked and we were quick to restrain him lest he shoot us with his gun. 

This wasn’t surprising, ambushes and captures happened weekly. What was surprising, and downright awful to think about, was the amount of blood scattered with the imprint of a body in the sand. The Afghani wasn’t injured, and nor had he or any of us been anywhere close to the imprint. There were no footsteps around the body, not even a smidgen of one, and there hadn’t been a sandstorm that day. The only prints we found were relatively fresh and about a meter away from the body imprint, as if the unknown man had leapt from one point to where he lay on the ground. 

When the Afghani spoke, it was not the tone of the piercing scream that we had all heard. When the Afghani spoke once more, to answer our question of what had happened, he merely pointed at the invisible body in the ground, his hand shaking, and said in broken English “The vanishing soldier.”

 

Bill from London  
Posted via email from Urban Legends Online

 

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Surely Moriarty doesn’t believe these stories. Perhaps he fabricated it, knowing that it would rub Sherlock the wrong way. Yes, definitely. The note proves that. Moriarty wants to wind him up. Well, he won’t let it work. He’ll continue his work and delete this note from his mind. He’ll chuck it in the fireplace later, when he’s not busy. He’ll question John on where he’s been all these days when he gets back. 

When he gets back.

Sherlock gives the article another quick look over and snorts derisively. The vanishing soldier. As if, he thinks. Time traveller, he thinks. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true, he thinks. 

And then suddenly, he doesn’t feel as certain any more. 

*

_21st February 2006. (John is 40.)_

The Afghan sun shines with splendour for three quarters of the year. It’s bloody typical that John manages to time travel to the coldest month of the year in the dry desert. It’s even worse that he knows exactly what time period it is and what event is happening. 

This can’t really get any worse, thinks John, his whole bare body shivering against the cold winds. 

Only…it does.

Gunfire suddenly echoes over the dunes and John drops to his stomach, his face hidden in his arms. His left hand trembles and pain twinges in his leg, hot and sudden. It’s not that his heart doesn’t race with adrenaline, not the fact that he’s naked and weaponless, but the memory of the incident, the origin of his certain condition that brought him back here in the first place, that shakes him to the core. He can still remember the agony of being shot, of waking up in a military hospital and falling back into darkness again just as quickly. 

“I don’t feel well,” he’d said.

“Of course you don’t, you’ve just been shot,” they’d replied.

He remembers being released after months of torture, of hot skin and fevered thoughts. And then time travelling. He’d been so scared, so fucking terrified the first time. Imagine it. You vanish, watching in horror as you disappear from the tips of your toes until you’ve blacked out, and then opening your eyes and finding you’re in a whole new place, a new era, a new time, naked and defenceless. You have no idea where you are and you’re feeling dreadful, not just emotionally fatigued but very physically too. There is nobody to help you. You’re alone and you have no idea what happened to you. 

He’d thought it was a dream at first. After vomiting, he’d sat there shivering for hours, until finally he realised that he wasn’t going to wake up. It wasn’t another god awful nightmare.   
He thinks that the realisation was the worst part. 

A shot cracks to the left of him. He jumps violently.

“Jesus,” he chokes out, as he starts to crawl on his belly across the sand, trying to spot a hole in the ground, a hiding place. Another bullet whistles over his head and he stops, statue-still. His heart is beating so loudly it’s like it’s about to jump right out and bleed in the sand. Blood pounds in his ears. Men scream over the guns and it’s so terrifyingly close. John still hasn’t budged an inch. He listens and wishes hard that he had his medical pack, his uniform, his gun. If he had the power, he would gladly sacrifice himself for the young men dying out there. If he could stand with confidence, not cower with fear, he could save their lives. He can almost feel the gauze under his hands, the push of the morphine needle against flesh, the crimson bleeding out of open wounds. He can remember the recoil of his gun and running, always running. Sherlock, he thinks suddenly. Sherlock Holmes gave me that. His heart lifts at the thought and his stomach unclenches, because as soon as gets out of here he can go back to his best friend.

An Afghani soldier stands half a dozen meters away from him; totally oblivious to the naked man crouched in the sand eying him carefully. He raises his sniper gun and aims into the fray of men battling on the sand.

Sherlock Holmes, John thinks and readies himself. What a wonderful man.

The dark eyes narrow above the scarf wrapped around the Afghani’s jaw and his finger pulls the trigger.

John pushes himself up and leaps. The bullet catches him in the stomach and the sand cradles the blood he leaves behind. 

*

_“If you’re a monster, then I’m warning you: I’m armed. And dangerous.”_

*

_11th June 2012. (John is 40, Sherlock is 36.)_

Through the haze of the pain, John hears someone call his name. Hands claw at him, peeling away his own weak, trembling fingers from his abdomen. It hurts. It hurts so much.

“John!”

Sherlock. 

John closes his eyes carefully. He tries to listen to Sherlock, but the beat of his heart drums in his ears. Dragging in the smallest sip of air through his heaving chest hurts. 

“John, I’m so sorry, I-“

A scarf is cinched tightly around his middle, slowing the blood flow. Agony blinds him. Sherlock’s talking again, babbling, crying, but John’s screaming too loud to hear him.  
More voices, more people, crowd him, but it’s only Sherlock’s presence that John can recognise. His hand, slippery with blood, reaches out and is quickly taken, wrapped around Sherlock’s own. 

“Squeeze my hand, John. An ambulance is coming, just…just hold my hand. Focus on me.”

John does. It’s almost instinct to follow Sherlock’s orders. Trust him. He squeezes as hard as he can. His weak muscles contract harshly and he grabs on, holding on as if Sherlock’s hand were a lifeline. He feels as if he were at sea, tossing and turning in the rough waves, and then as if he were in Afghanistan, and then his childhood with Harry flashes by, and then he’s sitting on the grass with an seven-and-a-half year old boy, and it’s at this point that he realises he’s dying. 

“Sherlock,” he whispers weakly.

“Stop it, shut up.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock chokes on his next words, looking agonised. John closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing past the daggers spiking in his stomach. He feels hands shaking him, starting softly before growing desperate.

“John, open your eyes,” he hears Sherlock say, “Stay awake.”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a pained sigh. He can’t. He can’t talk anymore, can’t reply to his best friend, and it stabs him sharper than the rip in his belly.

Another hand, a different person, lies upon his arm gently.

“Be calm, dear,” the woman is saying, “Be strong, John,” and oh, Mrs Hudson, bless her soul.

His breathing grows sparse; his heart slows.

“John,” whispers Sherlock, “Stay with me. They’re almost here, John.”

“I know.”

“You’re my best friend. You can’t leave. I forbid it, John.”

Silence. Deathly, neverending silence.

Sherlock crumples.

*

_10th August 2058. (Sherlock is 82.)_

Sherlock has been waiting with his bees. Hamish sits patiently next to his master, his tongue lolling and his tail wagging. The sun has made its careful way across the sky and the bees have almost finished their honey collection today, but still Sherlock waits. He knows that this time, finally, John will come.

He reaches down and scratches the dog behind his ears. Hamish whines.

I would wait an eternity and forever for you, John.

His bones are brittle, his mind weary. The notebook sat on his lap has seen many an adventure, and the dates that were scribbled long ago are vanishing, breathing their words with an air of finality, but they will be forever etched in Sherlock’s being; in the darkness behind his eyes, the crevices of his mind, the middle of his palms. 

There is a sound behind him, a crash of plant pots. Sherlock sits up straighter.

He is here.


	2. Timeline and resources

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a basic chronological timeline in case some bits in the story were confusing. :) And the references I used too, in case anyone wants to research more into them.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! :)

TIMELINE 

**18th September 1979. (John is 39 and 8.)**  
(John sees himself and Harry as children.)

 **2nd November 1983. (John is 39, Sherlock is 7 and ¾.)**  
(They meet for the first time.)

 **20th December 1983. (John is 35, Sherlock is 7-nearly-8.)**  
(They meet for the second time.)

 **5th October 1989. (John is 38, Sherlock is 13.)**  
(Carl Powers, Consulting Detective and Mycroft.)

 **19th July 1997. (John is 38, Sherlock is 21.)**  
(John travels back. Sherlock is taking drugs. Lestrade has his speech.)

 **21st February 2000. (John is 40 and 30.)**  
(John travels back to Afghanistan, the origin of his incident, and is shot.)

 **31st January 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)**  
(A Study In Pink and Lestrade’s confusion.)

 **3rd February 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)**  
(Medical thoughts.)

 **6th February 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)**  
(John vanishes while making tea.)

 **15th March 2012. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)**  
(John just got back 2nd Nov ’83.)

 **30th March 2011. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)**  
(The Great Game scene. Moriarty finds out about John’s condition.)

 **1st April 2011. (Sherlock is 35.)**  
(Sherlock waits for John’s return after TGG.)

 **5th April 2011. (Sherlock is 35.)**  
(Sherlock waits for John’s return after TGG.)

 **5th May 2011. (Sherlock is 35.)**  
(Sherlock waits for John’s return after TGG.)

 **17th May 2011. (Sherlock is 35.)**  
(Sherlock waits for John’s return after TGG.)

 **30th May 2011. (John is 35, Sherlock is 35.)**  
(Past-John appears injured and freezing.)

 **2nd June 2012. (John is 39, Sherlock is 35.)**  
(John returns.) 

**15th March 2012. (John is 40, Sherlock is 36.)**  
(Hound of The Baskervilles scene.)

 **17th April 2012. (John is 40, Sherlock is 36.)**  
(Future-John time travels back injured. Moriarty tortures present-John.)

 **18th April 2012. (John is 40, Sherlock is 36.)**  
(Hospital, post-torture.)

 **15th May 2012. (John is 40, Sherlock is 36.)**  
(John travels back to 17th April, gets shot, travels again and informs Sherlock of his torture.)

 **10th June 2012. (Sherlock is 36.)**  
(Sherlock receives Moriarty’s “gift” – the article w/John.)

 **12th June 2012. (John is 40, Sherlock is 36.)**  
(John returns and dies.)

 **10th August 2058. (John is 40, Sherlock is 82.)**  
(John sees an elderly, lonely Sherlock/Epilogue.)

 

*

 

Resources 

 

BBC Sherlock canon dates:  
http://sherlock.boardhost.com/viewtopic.php?id=395

 

RAMC/John’s duel careers:  
http://www.army.mod.uk/army-medical-services/5319.aspx  
http://wellingtongoose.livejournal.com/8054.html

 

The Time Travellers’ Wife:  
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0452694/   
Myself & the book!

 

Afghani language – Dari:  
http://www.scribd.com/doc/46646829/Dari-Basic-Language-Terms  
http://cperce.wordpress.com/2010/02/23/the-10-dari-phrases-you-need-to-know/  
http://mylanguages.org/dari_phrases.php


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